Out of the West
The thunder had shoved from sleep
What would the soul’s anchor seem:
So deep and falling men’s fears are
When eyes no buoyancy provide.
The trees, conspiratorially hissing,
Exhorted, it seemed, the angry
Masses of air that I knew now the
Storm that was early rumored in wind.
The heavy slugs of rain tore
Open the flesh of the ground and
Mud ran everywhere, and me,
In some hotel room, by kisses
Gunned down.
Yes, I had seen all this early
In dark battalions westward
Mounting who had become so
Long impending, familiar, death
Grew beautiful.
These things come out of
The West, where late it becomes
So red, so full, that the onset
Of night is full-well assumed,
Received courteously.
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